Veni Vidi Vici

Sitting here looking out the window at snow covered Praha, I keep sinking into daydreams of last weekend in Rome. You know those rare days when everything seems to work out just the way they should? We had three consecutive days like that in what is now one of my favorite cities in the world.

Upon finding out that Benedict was stepping down, I began to research when the conclave would begin and decided I must be in St. Peter’s Square to see that smoke. When it came down to it, they moved the conclave up and had chosen Pope Francis just a few days before our scheduled arrival. It worked out just fine.

Kirstie and I stumbled sleepily to the airport at 4am Friday and arrived in Roma in time to get a little lost, find a small restaurant outside the tourist center (best pasta ever) and hit the ground in search of some quality ruins. We found the Colosseum, allowed it to take our breath away for a minute or two and proceeded to walk around and around exploring and basking in the sun and antiquity.

Our entire trip proceeded in much the same way. We walked and talked and soaked up what felt like the warmth of summer (it was 50 degrees…). It was my second visit to Rome, yet every single second was new. People were so kind—we met so many friends who were eager to point us in the direction of “the best restaurant,” “the best part of town,” “the best cathedral,” et cetera.

We found many of these bests on our own; throughout the weekend we stumbled upon a huge changing of guards celebration at the President’s Palace, the arrival of Silvio Berlusconi (so many jocular Italians, so many political jabs) at the parliament offices, and of course plenty of the world’s best gelato.

What we didn’t get to experience, however, was a Vespa ride. Can you imagine? No one wanted to let two bright eyed American girls drive motorcycles in the lawless traffic of the world’s oldest city, and their only reason was that we’d never ridden one before. Rude.

We stayed out late Saturday night just taking everything in, walking with our new friend Alfonso, an archaeologist currently excavating the Appian Way. He gave us the grand tour through the Trastevere and the Old City, and took us to—guess what—“the best Italian restaurant.”

Sunday was my favorite day. I couldn’t even sleep thinking about getting to see our new Papa in real life. We rose with the sun and hit the road to the Vatican. We were waiting at the bus stop with a flutter of excited nuns when a transit officer came up and spoke to the lot of us in Italian, indicating that the bus would not be arriving. One of the sisters turned to us, questioned “San Pietra?” and gestured that we should follow them. 

The tiny little sisters (each of them was about half our size) took our hands and took off running to the nearby metro station. Sweetest/funniest moment of my life. They guided us through the metro, and when we were separated by the massive crowd, they stood on their tiptoes to make sure we knew where to hop off the car.

We all got off at the right station and weaved our way through the crowds. They led us all the way to St. Peter’s Square, kissed us, and then danced off in the other direction to celebrate mass with Pope Francis. We waited in the square for a couple of hours, the crowd growing in depth and spirit around us. Flags from every country around the world, Catholics, non-Catholics; all gathered for the same reason. Crazy, crazy experience being a part of something that much bigger than yourself. There was a little boy next to us, probably no more than two years old, cooing “Viva Papa Francesco!” adorably and inexhaustibly for the whole morning. The rest of the crowd was just as excited.

As long as I live I’ll never forget the feeling of being in that crowd and seeing that window open to the Vicar of Christ on earth. I think I still have chills.

After Papa Francesco’s greeting and praying of the Angelus, we joined the delighted crowd in a mass exodus. Kirstie and I strolled along the river until we found—wait for it—THE BEST RESTAURANT EVER. Le Cupole. Next time you’re in Roma, hit. it. up.  We shared our last pizza and bottle of wine and hit the ground with just enough time to make it to the airport. We arrived in Praha to a world of white and it took some serious self-discipline not to turn and RUN back to that airplane bound for sunny Roma.

Alas, it is good to be home, and really there’s no place quite as dear to any of us as good ol’ Praha.